


love is an ugly art

by ctrl_plus_c



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, No Dialogue, Sasori and Deidara are the same age, Sasori-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:00:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25959415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ctrl_plus_c/pseuds/ctrl_plus_c
Summary: Sasori's tired of losing, tired of feeling pain besides the accidental nick of a razor when he shaved his legs. He wanted his fingers to be clean and smooth, he wanted to look perfect at least on the outside, wanted to stop trying so hard for people who couldn't understand.Yet everytime Deidara leaves for work in the morning, the persistent thought lingers; 'What if he doesn't come back?'
Relationships: Deidara/Sasori (Naruto)
Kudos: 10





	love is an ugly art

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes there is no happy ending.
> 
> There is no sex scene, but sex is definitely described and mentioned. There is also mentioning of self harm, but no scene. Please take caution in reading.

Sasori thinks he is trying hard enough. The numerous wood carvings he'd made in mockery of Deidara's style, hiding his admiration behind sarcastic remarks and insults when the blonde found them. Honestly, he couldn't be honest. In terms of affection, Deidara was lucky to get a kiss on the cheek from him. Even despite the craving, the need to shower him in everything he had, to hold and to never let go. What if he was too overbearing, had Deidara perhaps gotten used to his aloofness, if Sasori decided to coddle him now would he just put up the same barrier Sasori wished he could tear down?

Desperation was poison. More so than his pet rattlesnake. When he first got with Deidara, accepted his confession behind the bleachers of their poorly funded art school, he didn't feel anything back. It was simply the want for love, to come home to someone who loved him more than anything else in the world. A deadly cobra; a poison that hurt endlessly, a wound in his chest that ached and ached, and the only medicine to cure it was Deidara's touch. The rarest of times when his body didn't react with a flinch or shiver, when Deidara's tough like leather hands cupped his cheek and lifted his thigh, spreading his legs and taking him, laying claim to what he _owned_.

The blonde was always gentle. He never spoke out loud or made it obvious; but in the way his fingers would linger on the skin above his waistband until Sasori scolded him, told him to hurry up, it was evidence enough. He molded him like a clay sculpture, always knowing just what to do to make him squirm. To make his body shiver, shocks of pleasure shooting down his spine and making his skin flare and burn with the heat pooling in his stomach. The hot, hard arousal that Deidara brought out in him with just his skilled fingers shaping his body, conforming it to just the perfect shape.

(In the case of sex, it was turning Sasori into a melted mess of moans and pitiful whines.)

Those times were rare. It was difficult; trying to rid himself of the feeling that Deidara was just going to use him before throwing him out with the rest of the trash. Sasori knew that wasn't the desired outcome, but he knew that it wouldn't bother him. The problem came when Deidara noticed his flinches, the way he stared at the wall instead of closing his eyes and arching his back when his thumb ghosted over his thigh. The blonde just knew his body too well, knew him too well to ever hurt him.

He wasn't a masochist by any means, but sometimes he wanted Deidara to stop treating him like a porcelain doll. If his skin broke from how Deidara's teeth bit into it, then it would heal. Sasori wouldn't shatter into pieces if Deidara treated him rough, especially in the bedroom.

Maybe it was the scars littering his skin. Maybe it was his wrists, marked by thin white lines that were so great it painted the illusion of a wild animal mauling them to shreds. Maybe it was his hips; decorated in circular cigarette burns the Deidara couldn't miss when Sasori's pants were off. Maybe it was his used, beaten, broken body that compelled Deidara to treat him the way he did. It certainly wasn't the way Sasori acted. Or maybe it was. Most likely, it was the one time he'd been pushed to actually use their safe word.

In one moment, Deidara must've scratched the junction in his hip with his nail, and whether it was on purpose or not didn't matter. The slight pain that normally shot up his spine in pleasure went straight to his heart and mind, it sent him reeling. For a moment, he thought he was still in that sex dungeon, smoking cigarettes and drinking cheap beer til he was too intoxicated to feel anything. Even when his vision cleared, he knew he should've said something. The scene should have stopped, he should have been able to reach out to Deidara for comfort.

Rose ripped its way out of his throat (a painfully common safe word, he knew) only after he'd tensed up, when his back was drawn like a bow string and his vision was blurry from tears or lack of air in his lungs. Even with how quiet he was, with how it sounded more like he was choking on a toad instead of begging for Deidara to stop, the blonde heard him. He immediately stopped, went through the work of covering him with a nearby fleece blanket just for this situation. 

And all Sasori could do was cry. 

He'd grabbed Deidara's hair and tugged so hard he pulled some strands out. It was a reminder that he was atop a soft bed, and that Deidara was the only one there, and that Deidara would never hurt him. Not like they had, at least. It was so hard to feel safe, safe in his own skin or in his home or with Deidara. But patience was a beautiful thing, and Deidara had just enough to let Sasori scream his head off and pull his hair out of his head and hold the smaller close to his chest, a thick blanket separating their bodies.

Simply, Deidara was perfect for him. They fit together like two missing pieces to a puzzle. A disgustingly scarred and broken puzzle, but one nonetheless.


End file.
